


Comes at a Cost

by abstractconcept



Series: Harry in Dresses [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Chan, Cock and Ball Restraints, Cross-Generation Relationship, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, Filth, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Purple Prose, Rimming, Spanking, Teacher-Student Relationship, Use of the Word 'Slut', dirtybadwrong, femme!harry, snarry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 03:58:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10296935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractconcept/pseuds/abstractconcept
Summary: Harry wants to surprise Remus, but he’s the one who’s in for a shock





	

**Author's Note:**

> Betas and Builders: Much thanks to joanwilder for the excellent and speedy beta, as well as hpstrangelove and chaosraven for the suggestions and [info]littleroo27 for the inspirational words. :D I did keep screwing with it post-beta, so any mistakes are my own.  
> Notes: A follow up to For a Reasonable Fee for Bring Back the Porn Challenge  
> Snape/Harry, mentions of Remus/Harry

Harry crept up to Remus’ door, trying to decide if he should take off the Cloak now, or wait until he was inside. But no, he didn’t want anyone to know about the Invisibility Cloak—not even Remus. Besides, if Remus found out about that little secret, he might be more interested in it than his surprise.  
  
So Harry crept back to one of the suits of armour in the hall and carefully folded the cloak, stashing it behind the plinth. And if Remus asked how Harry managed to come all this way, dressed like . . . well, Remus would just have to trust that Harry was discreet.  
  
Inching back to the Defence professor’s door, Harry felt his stomach swirling with warmth and excitement. His palms tingled, a little damp, as he tugged at the hem of his skirt. It was so short this time—shorter than he’d ever worn—and he was simultaneously exhilarated and terrified—what if someone caught him like this?  
  
But Merlin, when he’d seen the outfit in the magazine, a frilly, fluttery, fairy-floss vision, he’d just had to have it. He hoped he looked as pretty as he felt. It was amazing to wear something like this—he felt light as a feather, graceful as a snowflake as it spun and flitted through the air.  
  
Sucking in a great breath and steeling himself, Harry rapped sharply on the door.  
  
“Come in,” a voice snapped.  
  
Harry felt confused and uneasy. Remus never snapped. He hardly ever lost his temper at all. But then again, perhaps a bossy Remus could be fun.  
  
Harry’s prick twitched in anticipation and he boldly opened the door. “Professor? I’m here for deten—” Harry stopped in shock. It wasn’t Remus sitting behind the defence desk, calmly grading papers. Instead it was Snape, hunched over and glaring and _Oh god what will I do?_  
  
Harry squeaked in panicked surprise.  
  
Snape looked up and gave a jolt, then became very, very still.  
  
Harry knew the man was memorizing the sight. He could see himself over Snape’s shoulder in the mirror that Remus had brought for their first time, and he knew what Snape was seeing: Harry’s perky little tutu, the tight spandex leotard that clung to his frame, the pink mesh stockings Harry had slipped over his soft, coltish legs, the silk slippers, the ribbons in his hair. And then, of course, there had been the magical touch, the wings Harry bought in Hogsmeade, supposedly for a female cousin. They shimmered and flapped slowly, gossamer fairy wings spelled to the back of Harry’s leotard.  
  
Snape. Saw. Everything.  
  
For a long, long moment, Snape just stared. Abruptly, the man flashed a thin, nasty little smile. “You’re here for what, Mr. Potter? For . . . detention, was it?”  
  
Harry didn’t know what to say. He could hardly admit he was here to show off the first pretty outfit he’d ever bought by himself in the hopes that Professor Lupin would like it too. Instead, he nodded, his mouth dry.  
  
Snape studied him silently.  
  
Harry began to feel strange under Snape’s gaze. The man was too quiet, his eyes narrow, _calculating._ With his fairy wings flapping as rapidly as his heartbeat, Harry felt like an insect under observation.  
  
“I’m here for detention with _Remus_ ,” Harry finally managed. “Er—with Professor Lupin.”  
  
“I see,” Snape finally spat. “Unfortunately, Professor Lupin is _indisposed_ this evening. I suppose it is not completely outside the realm of possibility he would assign one of his favourites such an ingenious, humiliating detention, but it seems unlikely.”  
  
Flushing, Harry kept his teeth and fists firmly clenched. Remus would never humiliate him, but he knew he’d only dig himself in deeper if he argued.  
  
“Tell the truth, Mr. Potter,” Snape growled. “A prank—this is a _prank_ , isn’t it? You wanted to see what I would do. Well, I’ll _tell_ you what I’ll do; I’ll have you expelled, you little—”  
  
“It’s not a prank!” Harry said hotly. “It isn’t! I’m allowed to—” Harry broke off. How could he explain without explaining anything?  
  
“Or perhaps this is a test?” Snape went on. “Lupin knew I would be here; he must have known. I had to check his lesson plans. So then—is this some kind of entrapment? Perhaps it is _Lupin_ I should bring to the Headmaster’s attention. With luck, I could be rid of you both.”  
  
Horrified, Harry shook his head hard. Above all else, he must not get Professor Lupin in trouble. Tonight had been Harry’s idea, and Remus had never been anything but kind. He bought Harry pretty outfits, he let Harry come to his rooms. He made Harry feel so good with his big hands, gentle fingers and—he gave Harry a place to be himself! All Harry had wanted to do was repay the man’s kindness, not get him into trouble. Somehow, someway, Harry had to convince Snape not to blame Remus—and not to tell.  
  
“It’s not a trap,” Harry croaked.  
  
Snape's eyes narrowed for a long moment, and then he finally settled back in his seat, tension ebbing from his frame. “No. Not a trap,” he murmured, running a finger over his lips.  
  
Harry didn’t know what to make of that. He looked warily at Snape. “You believe me?”  
  
“It’s in your eyes,” the man replied, waving a hand dismissively. “Really, Potter—you’re too easy to read. But not a trap, then?”  
  
Harry shook his head again emphatically. “No, not a trap. _Really_ , sir. It was—it was just—supposed to be a surprise.”  
  
Snape’s eyes flashed with fiendish delight. He suddenly stood and strode over, and it struck Harry how very tall the man was, looming over him. He cast a long shadow in the candlelight—a shadow that stretched all the way over Harry, drenching him. Harry shivered, even though he couldn’t really feel it. Not really. You couldn’t feel darkness.  
  
Harry edged away until his back was against the classroom door.  
  
“A surprise?” Snape growled.  
  
“I—yes,” Harry said. “Sort of. But he—”  
  
“You _like_ Professor Lupin, don’t you, Potter?” Snape asked, an odd, hollow bitterness in his voice.  
  
“Yes,” Harry said defiantly. “Lots.”  
  
Snape smiled thinly. “So you came to surprise him. You like him so much that you came in the night, in your lacy little tart’s dress—you came to _seduce_ him, didn’t you?”  
  
Harry’s face burned. Sometimes Remus touched him, it was true. And Harry liked it. He remembered how stiff his prick had gotten earlier as he had dressed, all the while thinking about Remus undressing him.  
  
“Well, _I_ am not so easily seduced!” Snape suddenly brought his hand down on the desk with a mighty thwack, so loud and unexpected that Harry jumped—and to his shame, his prick jumped too, straight to attention. And his tutu did nothing to hide his indiscretion.  
  
Snape seemed pleased with this development, if his crooked sneer was anything to go by. “Do you think I want to fuck you, Potter?” he demanded. “I don’t.” Snape looked at him with a sort of black intensity that made Harry shiver. “ _I just want to see you cry_.”  
  
Harry backed away, raising a trembling hand to his mouth. He’d never heard Snape swear before, and was surprised at how frightened and strange and dirty it made him feel.  
  
“Come here, boy,” Snape commanded.  
  
Harry didn’t move. “What are you going to do?”  
  
“Paddle you,” Snape answered.  
  
Harry flushed. Paddle? Like spank? Harry felt a guilty yearning flood through him.  
  
He hated Snape, and yet, some secret part of him had wondered what it would be like. He’d gotten up the courage to ask Remus to spank him, just a little, to do it just a little harder, but Remus wouldn’t. Remus was too nice and didn’t want to hurt him. It frustrated Harry, because sometimes he secretly wished it could be just a little—a little _more_ , somehow, with spanking or hair-pulling or even just having his wrists held together. Just the thought of it made Harry’s heart pound.  
  
He realised Snape was still looking at him, his face just a little tight. The way he loomed over Harry, his whole body tense, his eyes dark—Harry’s fright was beginning to shiver and twist into something new, something shameful. He didn’t want—he couldn’t want—  
  
“Sir—please,” he begged, his voice breaking.  
  
“Please what?” Snape replied, almost as though he could read Harry’s mind, could sense his indecision. Snape smiled. “You’re fraying,” he said.  
  
“What?” Harry replied.  
  
“You’re fraying. All I need to do is tease out one strand, string you along—”  
  
Shaking, Harry stood, shifting from one foot to the other uncertainly, twisting his fingers in the tulle of his skirt. Snape really _could_ read his mind. Did he know what Harry wanted? Did he know—did he know how _dirty_ and _bad_ Harry was?  
  
Snape slowly lowered himself back into Remus’ chair, never breaking eye contact. “Come here,” he ordered.  
  
Harry looked at him with pleading eyes.  
  
“ _Now!_ ” Snape roared, and Harry squeaked, and suddenly found his treacherous feet obeying, his little pink silk slippers soundless as he hurried across the room. “Bend over,” Snape whispered. He gestured to his lap. Harry thought he might die, right then and there, just melt right into the floor out of embarrassment.  
  
Harry did his best, but apparently it wasn’t good enough for Snape. The man shifted his legs, and suddenly Harry’s feet were dangling. His face grew even hotter; he hadn’t known he was so small his feet wouldn’t touch ground.  
  
But maybe it was a spell, or maybe Snape had raised the chair, because Harry had been on Remus’ lap plenty of times and had never felt that small. He hoped his wings wouldn’t get in the way. He couldn’t bear the thought of Snape snapping one of them.  
  
So engrossed in his own thoughts, Harry was completely unprepared for the first strike. He yelped, tears springing to his eyes.  
  
“Do you like to dress as a girl?” Snape asked conversationally.  
  
“Y-yes,” Harry choked. He looked over his shoulder; the paddle was wide and black with little holes in it. It looked to Harry like some kind of medieval torture instrument.  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
There was another crack, a flash of fire up Harry’s spine. “Oh—God!” He shut his eyes and clenched his teeth against the pain.  
  
He felt one of Snape’s hands slide beneath his chin, forcing his head up. “Cry for me, Potter,” the man instructed.  
  
Another crack, another awful jolt of pain.  
  
“I promise I won’t hurt you anymore after you’ve given me what I want,” Snape whispered.  
  
Harry looked up at him, wide-eyed.  
  
“I can see the tears clinging to your eyelashes,” Snape told him. “Such pretty eyes you have. _And all you have to do is blink.”  
  
Slap!_  
  
Harry bit back a noise of pain, a fat teardrop plummeting to the floor. He kept his eyes shut tightly, angry and ashamed as more tears followed.  
  
Snape, however, let out a shaky, satisfied breath. “Was that so very hard?” he asked, his voice thick with amusement.  
  
“It hurt,” Harry choked out. “It really hurt.”  
  
“Did you think it would be _fun?_ ”  
  
Harry didn’t answer, turning his head away.  
  
Snape seemed to give this consideration. “You did imagine you would enjoy it,” he murmured. He sounded off-balance. “You like girl’s clothes. You _like_ spankings.”  
  
“I _do not_ like spankings,” Harry hurried to correct.  
  
Snape snorted. “Certainly not with that level of force, no.” Harry looked up at him, and perhaps it was just a trick of the light, but for a moment Snape looked just a shade uncertain. “It doesn’t always hurt that way,” he noted.  
  
“Right,” Harry said. “Just—just—yeah, _right._ ”  
  
To Harry’s shock, the man stroked him, running a lingering hand through his hair, then down his back, stopping to rest his cool fingertips against the burning heat of Harry’s arse cheeks.  
  
“I’m not sorry.” The man looked at Harry speculatively. “But it would be better for you to realize that you were indeed correct—that sometimes there is pleasure in pain.”  
  
Now he was stroking Harry’s bum, his hands like liquid, flowing over the bottom of Harry’s leotard and encountering no friction. It felt good. Harry could still feel the pain—but it was _good_. It wasn’t exactly pain. Not anymore.  
  
“Now that I’ve gotten what I wanted, shall I allow you the same consideration?”  
  
Harry blinked dazedly up at him, his eyelashes still clinging together from unshed tears. He no longer felt like the pretty little princess he’d started out as—now he was rumpled and dizzy and tingling and sore.  
  
Snape was looking at him strangely. “What is it that makes you happy?” he asked. “Your little dresses?”  
  
Snuffling, Harry nodded.  
  
“I admit it’s a more fetching outfit than I’d have expected. Did you choose it? Why?”  
  
Harry was beginning to calm down, feeling strangely warm and rather boneless in Snape’s lap. “It was so pretty,” Harry breathed. “You just should have seen it. In the window,” he added. “It was so shiny and smooth and—I don’t know. I don’t know the words. I liked the way the skirt stuck out, all stiff and pink like—” Harry broke off, blushing.  
  
Snape snorted, but it was a laughter sort of noise, not his usual contempt.  
  
“I had enough money. I was scared, but—but it was so beautiful. Have you seen a ballerina? Muggles have them, you know. In plays, like. They dance around like butterflies, they float and skip and sometimes they even have sparkly little crowns on their heads.”  
  
Snape was looking at him sort of funny, soft-like. Not the way Snape usually looked at him at all. “Indeed.”  
  
“And I wanted it so bad. I wanted to spin around and around and feel dizzy and shimmering and beautiful, that’s all.”  
  
Snape actually smiled. “You’re feet are too big,” he remarked.  
  
Harry’s face crumpled.  
  
“But you’re still beautiful,” the man interjected, surprising them both, if the look on Snape’s face was anything to go by. He stared at Harry. “All the more beautiful for the crying,” Snape murmured. “Your nose is red, but so are your cheeks and . . . your lips, as well,” he added, running a thumb over them to emphasize his words. It was funny how large his hand seemed, so close to Harry’s face. “And your lashes are dark, stained with tears. I’ve hardly ever seen anything more alluring.”  
  
Harry hid a smile, turning his face away so Snape couldn’t see the dimple. “I like this dress. It feels nice on me,” he admitted. “I never felt anything like it. I think it’s the Muggle cloth, you know. It’s so smooth, so nice and cool.”  
  
“Is it?” Snape caressed him in an almost desultory way. He stroked his way down Harry’s chest. “It certainly is smooth,” the man remarked. “Almost slick.”  
  
The silky touch made Harry’s wings give an agreeable shiver, and there was no hiding it; as Snape’s lingering touch explored him ever so lightly, Harry felt the tip of a finger bump up against one of his nipples.  
  
Snape stilled, and flashed a nasty little smile at Harry. “The fabric is very elastic, isn’t it?” he purred.  
  
“Um,” Harry said. The man touched him again, touched that place that Remus sometimes touched, a little finger-flick that made him suddenly squirm, all hot and blushy. “Sir,” he whispered.  
  
“It doesn’t hurt, does it?” Snape replied.  
  
“N-no. It feels nice. But—oh!” A sudden, sharp little tug pulled a mewl right out of Harry’s surprised mouth.  
  
“And that did hurt, didn’t it?” Snape said. “But just a very little.”  
  
“Just a little,” Harry agreed.  
  
“But not in a bad way.”  
  
“No.” Harry felt breathless. “Not in a bad way at all.”  
  
The way Snape explored Harry’s nipples was completely unexpected. His fingertips seemed so glossy against Harry’s body, but Harry knew it was really just his ballerina costume. And then when Snape paused, pinched sharply, Harry felt a sudden little blossom of thrilling pain.  
  
“Oh, oh, _oh,_ ” Harry panted.  
  
“You like that?” Snape murmured.  
  
Harry writhed. “Yes,” he said. And it was good, even though it was something Remus had done as well. Snape continued to pluck and tweak, smirking as Harry rolled and fidgeted and whimpered, prick aching, toes curling.  
  
But soon Harry was having that feeling again, that feeling like it just wasn’t enough. Remus never seemed to notice, but Snape’s attention was laser-sharp and focused intently on Harry’s every move.  
  
“Do you want something else?” he asked.  
  
Harry looked up at him fearfully. “No, sir. I _like_ this. Really!”  
  
Snape’s lip curled down at the edge, but Harry had a funny feeling it was the same thing as a smile, just inverted a little bit. “Perhaps I should show you that spanking really can be an enjoyable thing.”  
  
“You don’t have to do that,” Harry said quickly.  
  
Still not exactly smiling, Snape joggled the paddle, which transformed, elongating. It looked like a long, thin, bendy sort of spatula.  
  
“What’s _that_ for?” Harry asked.  
  
Snape showed him with a flick; the little thing whipped against Harry’s bottom, stinging it lightly.  
  
“ _Oh,_ ” Harry said.  
  
It sort of hurt. But it _didn’t_ hurt. It felt wicked good, all zips and tingles of pleasure-pain. Snape wasn’t smacking him hard; he was fluttering the little paddle all over Harry’s bum.  
  
“That feels _so good_ ,” Harry gasped.  
  
Snape’s smile grew, widening into something hungry and sharp. “A little harder?” he suggested.  
  
Harry eagerly lifted his bum into the air. The speed and strength of Snape’s swats increased. Now each slap felt hot against Harry’s already-sore flesh. Harry whimpered, beginning to rut against Snape’s leg.  
  
He could hear the man’s breathing becoming ragged. There was a pause, and something brushed against the leotard covering Harry’s bottom—then a sudden, ragged, tearing noise and cool air against Harry’s cheeks.  
  
He looked up at Snape in horror. “You tore it! My pretty dress!”  
  
“ _Will you be quiet_!” Snape snapped, his eyes wild. “I’ll restore it later!” He hand rose high, then flashed down, and a stripe of pain burned straight across Harry’s bum.  
  
“Oh!” Harry cried.  
  
Snape echoed this, and Harry blinked up at him. The man let out a jagged breath. “Lovely,” he groaned. “A pretty ribbon of red right across your pink, bouncy little arse.”  
  
Feeling his face heat, Harry reached one hand down, his fingers just touching the welt. Snape’s fingers, as well, traced the line of heat across Harry’s bum almost reverently. Snape let out a hiss of pleasure. “Your downy skin puts the satin to shame,” he remarked.  
  
Harry made a noise, a soft trill at this unexpected compliment and the gentle stroking of his now-tender bum.  
  
Snape paused, then began to paddle Harry again, but not so hard.  
  
Just hard enough.  
  
Harry’s prick was free now, and stiff and needy. He wanted very badly to touch it, but he knew Snape would be angry. Instead he held tight to the man’s knee, his knuckles white and his hands shaking.  
  
“No, not there,” Snape said. “Hold yourself open.”  
  
Harry looked up, uncomprehending. “Open?”  
  
“Your arse cheeks. Pull them apart,” Snape ordered.  
  
Bewildered, hot with embarrassment and filled with a naughty exhilaration, Harry did as he was told, straining to get around the lacy wings in his way.  
  
Snape varied his strikes; the little paddle explored Harry’s arse, rapid little slaps sometimes soft as a kiss, sometimes a stinging little nip against his backside—and it was circling, moving ever closer until—  
  
Harry keened. Oh, he had never imagined anything so wrong and shocking as that little paddle spanking his entrance, his most private place.  
  
“You should see how red your sweet little arsehole is,” Snape told him with dark glee. The paddle dipped and fluttered, warm little licks against Harry’s hole. “It’s like a tiny, silken rose, ready to blossom.”  
  
“Oh, _sir,_ ” Harry yelped. He tried to muffle his cries with his hand.  
  
Snape laughed huskily. “You know, your small, exquisite fist pressed hard against your red, red lips is _not_ making you seem any less erotic.”  
  
Harry dragged his hand away, a thin, glistening string of spittle still running from his knuckle to his lip. “I thought you didn’t think I was erotic,” he gasped. “I thought you didn’t want to fuck me.”  
  
Snape grabbed a fistful of Harry’s scruffy hair, pulling his head up. One of Harry’s dainty ribbons fluttered to the ground. Harry looked at him with wide eyes, confused. He didn’t know what Snape was doing, or why he’d stopped the spanking.  
  
“I _lied,_ ” Snape said hoarsely. “I want to fuck you so hard you can barely stand up in morning. I want to fuck you so hard that your trembling legs only just manage to get you to class, and your dear Professor Lupin sees and knows _exactly_ what I’ve done.” Snape kissed him roughly, his tongue thrusting into Harry’s mouth.  
  
Harry managed to get his arms around the man’s shoulders, even though it meant twisting around. God, Snape was so tense. Harry could feel the man’s muscles, wiry and trembling, like a spring ready to unwind. Harry felt so delicate and small in the man’s lap, with Snape’s strong fist tight in his hair, making his eyes water.  
  
The man pulled away, sucking in a small gasp of air.  
  
“Hurt me some more,” Harry begged. “Oh, _please_ sir!”  
  
Snape looked briefly surprised, but then placed his hand on the back of Harry’s neck and bent him down again. Harry eagerly parted his own buttcheeks, squeaking as Snape resumed the delicious _snap-thwack_ against Harry’s pucker.  
  
Harry began to cry again, harder this time, great sobs wracking him.  
  
“Does it hurt?”  
  
“No—no! It feels too good!” Harry cried. “It feels so sexy. I want to—I want to—”  
  
There was an abrupt constriction around Harry’s balls, a tightness squeezing Harry’s cock.  
  
“Not yet, you don’t,” Snape grunted. “You know what this is for, don’t you?”  
  
Harry looked at Snape, head tilted to the side, blinking. Why would anyone want to tie up his penis?  
  
“You do not come without my permission, is that understood?”  
  
Harry shivered. Snape’s deep, demanding voice was increasingly arousing—but the tight straps wrapped around Harry’s penis meant it could twitch a little, but somehow he’d been drawn back from the precipice of orgasm. “Yes, sir,” he whispered.  
  
Snape’s eyes squeezed shut in a contented sort of way and he gave a little shudder. “Good boy,” he purred.  
  
“Mmmm,” Harry moaned. He gave a lithe stretch. He’d been in the same position for so long that his arms and legs were beginning to ache.  
  
“Perhaps we should move on from the spanking,” Snape observed.  
  
Harry must have looked comically disappointed, because the man laughed. He rose, lifting Harry easily, and set him on Remus’ desk on all fours. “Arse in the air,” he ordered.  
  
Harry was happy to comply. He leaned forward and rested his head against his forearm, prick throbbing in its constraints as he breathlessly waited to see what Snape would do next.  
  
“Aren’t you limber?” Snape remarked quietly. He pressed a finger into Harry’s arse. “And eager,” he added. “Your body just sucks me in.”  
  
Harry whined, burying his burning face in his arms.  
  
Snape withdrew his finger. The man leaned down, and Harry found it difficult to see what he was doing; the stiff skirt got in the way.  
  
He couldn’t see what Snape was doing, but the wet heat that skimmed his hot skin could only be one thing. “S-sir!” he gulped.  
  
Snape made a soft, inquisitive noise, his mouth full of Harry’s plump flesh.  
  
“You’re—but you’re _licking_ me!” Harry exclaimed. Remus had never done that.  
  
Snape chuckled quietly against Harry’s cheek. “Yes. You have such a pretty little arse. I doubt anyone could blame me for wanting a taste. And,” he added, flicking a thumb against the strained straps hugging Harry’s balls, “the rest of you is rather tempting as well. So warm, silken and smooth.”  
  
Harry could feel the man’s tongue following one of the straps, licking its way up and down his balls.  
  
“Please fuck me,” Harry blurted.  
  
Snape paused. “You aren’t as innocent as you like to present yourself, are you?” he asked.  
  
Harry didn’t care if Snape knew what Remus did to him on a regular basis. All he cared about was that he needed it—needed Snape—right now. “Oh, sir, _please_ ,” Harry begged. “I need it right now. I need it in me. I can’t—you have to—oh god— _please!_ ”  
  
Snape ignored him, his long tongue slithering over Harry’s overstimulated flesh, up between his cheeks, delving right into his hole. Harry howled as Snape explored him, fucking Harry with his slippery, squirming tongue. Harry’s fragile, sparkling wings beat frantically as Harry was plundered, keening with pleasure.  
  
Finally the man pulled away. He began to work his fingers into Harry again. Harry’s body was much more receptive now, a little slick and eager for Snape’s cock. “I wish I’d thought to bring a vial of oil,” Snape panted.  
  
Harry’s small hand groped for the drawer on Remus’ desk. Snape laughed when he saw what Harry was doing. “Lupin must enjoy you,” he said. “Not that I can blame him.”  
  
Harry couldn’t seem to catch his breath. “He calls me—he calls me his—his pretty little angel,” Harry gasped.  
  
“Mmmmm,” Snape agreed. “You certainly are pretty,” he said, now thrusting his lubricated fingers into Harry with enthusiasm. “With your fluttery eyes, your sweet mouth, your impossibly tight arse.”  
  
Harry looked over his shoulder at the man, eyes begging, pursing his lips just a little. “ _Please._ I need—”  
  
Before he could finish the sentence, Snape had sheathed himself in Harry in one smooth, hard lunge.  
  
Harry cried out, his entire body stiffening. It had happened so fast; he hadn’t been prepared.  
  
Again, before he could recover, Snape had a hand in his hair, pulling out and once again plunging into Harry’s body. Harry planted his hands on the desk, trying to get some kind of purchase, trying to brace himself against the savage, bestial way Snape was fucking him. Harry tried to hook his feet on the edge of the desk, worried he’d be pushed off.  
  
“Does that feel good?” Snape cooed.  
  
“Yes— _yes_ ,” Harry said, realising, to his surprise that it did. His cock though—his cock needed friction, and he began to struggle; if he could just spread himself wide enough, he could hump Remus’ desk while Snape fucked him. He just—needed—a little more . . .  
  
Snape grabbed one of Harry’s wrists, yanking it back and making Harry squeal in surprised pain. Then he took the other, pinned them together behind Harry’s back. Harry thought his shoulders would pop right out of their sockets, but somehow, overriding all of it, was the pure pleasure of the rigid cock impaling him. Harry’s wings were pinned now; one was crooked, hanging half-off, still waving fitfully. Harry felt he couldn’t take much more of this, but he _wanted_ more.  
  
“ _Ohfuck_ ,” he blurted. “Oh. Please. _Fuck!_ ” he wailed.  
  
Severus Snape laughed darkly. “Do your pretty lips form such filthy words for _him?_ ” he demanded.  
  
“No,” Harry admitted weakly.  
  
Snape’s hips slammed forward again. Harry bucked, straining, his toes curling as he fought for that unreachable pleasure. His prick throbbed, too full of need to be held back much longer, straps or no straps.  
  
Snape brought his lips down to Harry’s ear. “Remember,” he hissed, “you might be Professor Lupin’s pretty little angel, but you’re Professor Snape’s naughty little _slut._ ”  
  
Harry gave a long, wavering cry that might have been agreement, or might just have been a plea for release. Even Harry didn’t know anymore.  
  
“ _Say it_.”  
  
“’M P-P-Professor Snape’s—naught—little,” Harry gulped, “ _slut!_ ”  
  
Snape’s fingers just brushed Harry’s balls, Banishing the straps—they did not caress him or began to pump his desperate cock, and in fact, they wouldn’t have had time.  
  
Harry was spurting before the bonds were fully released, climaxing with a great shudder, scrabbling against Professor Lupin’s desk.  
  
Snape pulled back just a moment, long enough to watch Harry’s cream fall in droplets over the desktop. Then he shoved Harry down once more and plunged. Harry, exhausted, sated, still singing from the bliss that burned through him, allowed Snape to piston and ram and savage Harry as he would.  
  
Harry sighed happily; he’d never felt so exhausted. His prick was still twitching feebly against the desk. God, he felt good. He was going to be damned sore in the morning, though.  
  
Snape plunged into Harry so very deeply that Harry thought it would come out his mouth, but then he felt Snape’s cock pulsing, still deep inside him, as the man tightened his hold on Harry’s hips and held on relentlessly as every last drop of seed was pumped into Harry’s welcoming body.  
  
Finally, finally, the man slid out, dropping into Remus’ chair while Harry tried to get his skirts straight.  
  
“Are you . . . injured?” Snape asked gruffly.  
  
“I—I don’t think so.” Harry carefully turned over, feeling Snape’s semen spilling from him. “Shouldn’t we—clean up?” Harry asked.  
  
Snape looked a little lost—a little overwhelmed. His face had a nice sort of glow, but the rest of him looked wild, feral. It was certainly a different sort of look for Snape. Harry felt a fierce rush of pride that he could make Snape this way, that _he_ could make the man feel this good.  
  
“There’s a loo,” Harry pointed. “And I know he keeps a cloth in there.”  
  
Snape rose on unsteady feet and went to get them, his face sour at the reminder of Remus and the cloth’s usual use. Still, he was gentle enough when he cleaned Harry, remarking only that the substance would look better on his face. He even repaired Harry’s leotard.  
  
Then he stood, looking impassive. “It’s all better, but I’m afraid you’ll be unable to surprise Lupin with it tomorrow. He is ill and will miss class. In your condition, I would expect you to convalesce tomorrow as well. Do tell me if you need a note,” he added with insulting blandness.  
  
He turned and swept away toward the door. “I should return to my rooms. I bid you good—”  
  
“Professor Snape?” Harry murmured. “I think you forgot something.”  
  
Snape turned in time to see Harry lift the little paddle, the strange, sexy spatula thing, and lick the end of it, sucking the tip into his mouth.  
  
The man turned bright red. “Give me my wand at once,” he snarled.  
  
“Yes, sir,” Harry said. He gave the object one last kiss before handing it back. “I’ll want it again, you know,” he said after Snape turned away.  
  
The man’s shoulders relaxed. “Of course. It’s only natural.” He half-turned, smiling in the dim light. “After all, “you might be Professor Lupin’s pretty little angel, but you’re Professor Snape’s naughty little _slut._ ”  
  
Harry smiled as the man left, then waited a bit before going to retrieve he cloak. He enjoyed being Remus’ pretty little angel. He liked his lacy outfits and Remus’ soft words and kisses and sweets. But he enjoyed Professor Snape as well. He liked his black looks and nasty words and stinging whips and toys. He _was_ happy to be a pretty little angel.  
  
But sometimes it was nice to be a naughty little slut, too.


End file.
